


Therapy fic

by shadesofhades



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Denial, Gen, M/M, Sexual Abuse, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/pseuds/shadesofhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam seeks therapy after a psychology lesson brings up unwanted memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therapy fic

**Author's Note:**

> This was a sequel to a fic that I just realized wasn't posted on here. Short summary of the original: John molests Dean, who later grows up to molest Sam.
> 
> Original fic was written in 2008. Pretty sure I started this not long after.

The first time he goes, it's not exactly willfully. Though, in retrospect he's not precisely forced either. Although Stanford likes to project an image of a school that cares about the well being of their student body, Sam's pretty sure that no one would actually _make_ him attend, but there's a persuasive argument that finally compels him into action.

There's a chapter on incest and it's effects on child development in his psychology textbook, and although he tries to channel Dean and put on a blank face, it doesn't really help, because his reaction is too immediate, too great. His entire body feels like it's draining of blood and he can't help the dizzying sensation that trapezes through his skull as he look at the word laid out in front of him in black and white.

 _Incest_.

It stares at him like an accusation, and he suddenly feels like everyone in the room is staring at him, like they _know_ just because the word is there in front of them all. He knows it's silly, that it's just word to them, just another thing they'll forget about as soon as the class ends, but it's solid and haunting to Sam, and it feels like it's choking him. The whole room seems like it's shrunk, trying to form a vice grip around him with prying hands and the brush of shoulders and arms to his. They're suddenly so close to him and the room is spinning out of control.

Then his friend leans over and whispers, "Hey, you okay there, man? You don't look so good."

And Sam doesn't answer him, doesn't stop to listen to the professor or the whispers around him. He just stands up and for the first time in his life, he leaves the classroom without looking back.

It isn't until he's back in the safety of his apartment that he regrets leaving, especially in the middle of the lecture, because he knows by now that there's at least one person who's put together two and two together and realized that Sam's obviously been effected by the chapter in the book and not by a bad case of food poisoning. And worst of all, Sam really has no excuse for the professor that doesn't give him away completely. Because he can't just come out and say, "I left your class because my brother and I used to have sex." 

It's a dilemma. As much as he wants to hide from the truth and just forget about it, at the same time he can't just ignore what happened in class and write it off like it doesn't matter, because his grade is at stake if he doesn't do at least something to reconcile the situation.

As much as he doesn't want to, he forces himself to go to the professor's office and knock on the door, praying that he'll get no answer so he can crawl back to his apartment and pretend that he tried to fix it all, and that he's just out of luck. But he really _is_ out of luck, because a gruff voice on the other side of the door is beckoning him inside the office.

The professor looks only vaguely surprised to see him. "Sam Winchester, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?" He asks, setting his pen down on the desk in front of him and leaning back in his leather chair, his fingers laced together in the sign that Sam has his full attention.

He doesn't really know where to start though. So he tries with, "Well, about earlier," as he forces a sheepish grin across his face, hoping it looks sincere.

"It's alright, Sam," he waves it off with a flourish of his hand, "I realize that some issues we teach in psychology are taboo and offensive to some. You're not the first person to walk out of class in the middle of a lecture before and I'm sure you won't be the last."

Sam doesn't let it rest though, like he, in all honesty, should. Because he's not an easily offended person -- living with Dean for eighteen years at made sure of that -- and he's promised himself that he was done lying about the present, and only the past was going to stay buried, but it seems that the past it catching up to him quicker than he can run from it, and he has little choice but to bend to it's will and he finds himself saying, "It's not like that, Professor," before he really has time to weigh the consequences of his words.

The man behind the desk raises an eyebrow. "Oh? What was it like then?"

"I... I can't tell you. It's... uh... very personal." Sam would love to be as smooth as Dean always had been. His brother always had a was to smooth over any situation with just a few well placed words and some harmless flirting, but Sam's never been much inclined with the flirting, and it seems like he can't even get a few clumsy words out without choking on the things. 

"Sam Winchester, I haven't seen someone leave a room that quickly at the mention of incest since explosive diarrhea was going around."

Sam's stuttering, looking for anything intelligent to say to dispute the accusation in those words, but anything he tries to get out sounds far to defensive to be convincing and saying nothing at all is like admitting to guilt. But in the end, he's too dumb-struck to get anything out. 

So of course, the professor take this as a sign of guilt.

"I realize it's a hard subject to breech, and I won't blame you if you don't desire to talk to me about said subject. But I have the name of a therapist. He's a good friend of mine. I can give you his number if you'd like. He has a lot of experience in abuse cases and he's very good with victims of sexual abuse."

He's blushing deep scarlet by the time the man across from him is finish speaking, and he just trying to form a proper sentence to the words. 

"It wasn't like that!" comes barreling out of him faster than he can cork the incriminating words. "Abuse I mean..." he finishes lamely, after a deep breath and the raise of an eyebrow from the professor. Sam ducks his head and says, "Oh god, that makes it sounds so much worse, doesn't it?" If Sam could literally put his foot in his mouth at this point, he might, because his mouth is running away with him and he's having a little trouble bring it to a halt. So the babble of "I mean, it wasn't mutual, but it wasn't like he was abusing me," continues to stream from his throat. 

For some reason unbeknown to him, he just can't shut himself the hell up, and each word is only escalating the panic he feel at letting any of this out at all, let alone to someone he hardly knows beyond a letter and notes left on essays and research papers. But he's spilling his guts and it's all tumbling out of him and building like an avalanche until the hand behind the desk holds up his hand and shakes his head, settling a sudden hush over Sam's mouth. He closes it a sharp clink of teeth and the professor looks at him with melancholy eyes, before he presents a white business card.

"It's seems like you have a lot to work through, Sam. The doctor can help you, I promise."

Sam takes the care without a word and leaves the office. 

For nearly a week it just sits in his wallet like an invisible weight pulling him down, until he's finally to exhausted from the extra excursion of carrying it with him, and he pulls it out, stares at it for a long moment before he makes the call.

Three days after finds him in a pristine waiting room reading year old _Time_ magazines with sweating palms and a nurse with a pretty smile.

It's not what he's expecting. Not at all. There's no "Tell me about your mother," no direct accusation of, "show me on the doll where your brother touched you," just some small talk before he starts to ask any questions beyond, "what's your major?" 

The transition between "Tell me about yourself," to "Why are you here?" is so smooth that Sam almost immediately answers before he can stop to contemplate how much he really wants to reveal. It's been over a year, but he's hunter's skills aren't making it easy to trust the doctor the way he should, the way he knows other people do. John Winchester usually leaves a deep impression on the people that know him, and unfortunately for Sam, John Winchester has left more scars than impressions.


End file.
